Title: Offerings
Author: OneTwoMany
Email: onetwomany@bigpond.com
Summary: The intensity of his love terrifies her. She thinks she doesn't want that kind of responsibility. Knows she doesn't deserve it. Wonders if she has anything to offer in return.
Otherwise known as, "My Contribution to Bub and Ceit's Bitey Fanfic Challenge".
Dedication: To everyone on Fanforum. You guys rock! And especially to BubonicPlague1348, for the confidence-boosting support, and BuffyX, for being a kick-ass beta if ever there was one.
Spoilers: Through Showtime
Rating: I'm somewhat unsure of US ratings, but likely an R all up. This part is PG-13.
Archiving: Want. Take. Have. But I'd love it if you dropped me a line so I can go check you out.
Feedback: Yes please. Email me: Onetwomany@bigpond.com, or feel free to PM me on FF, where I post as 'Sabre'.
Disclaimer: Not mine, and I'm not worth suing.

Chapter 5


Reluctant as Spike was to enter the bathroom, he is nearly as hesitant to leave it. Spike stands at the door, hand on the doorknob, listening intently for signs of life in the house beyond. Bloody stupid thing to be doing, but he's in no mood for questions, let alone curiosity, and the last thing he wants to do is run into a gaggle of Slayer wannabes.

He's dressed again in the familiar black jeans and plain black T-shirt. It made him smile when he realized Buffy had left them for him. His smile widened when he realized they were new. Cheap, chain-store jeans, the type he'd rather have been dusted than be seen in a year ago. But he couldn't give a fuck now, not when she'd shopped for them; shopped in expectation of rescuing him. It was the strangest, most touching thing he could possibly imagine. They'd never, in all their time together, exchanged any kind of gift. He'd never had the courage to risk it; he doubted she'd ever considered it. And yet here she'd gone and bought him clothes. She'd even known what size to buy. Funny that, considering he couldn't remember a single instance in all their time together when she'd paused long enough to check the label.

The house beyond the door is quiet, but he knows it won't be for long. He decides this lull is as good as any other. Finally, he pulls the door open, steps into the corridor and makes his way downstairs, bare feet padding along the thick carpet.

He's almost at the basement door when the sound of Giles' voice, cool and deadly calm gives him cause to stop.

"I see you got what you wanted."

Too calm.

"And what's that then?" Spike asks as he turns to meet the Watcher's glare.

Giles looks even older, more exhausted than usual. The lines on his face are etched deeper, his brow furrowed in a crease, gray hairs sprouting on his receding hairline. Humans age, and it's been a while since Spike's seen this one; but surely not that long? Last time was during that ridiculous farce that resulted from Red's mind-wipe spell. A year? Sounds about right, even though it seems like so much longer. So much has happened since then.

"You know what I'm talking about." Giles' tone is severe, cutting, and Spike has the sudden sense that he's about due for a scolding. How bloody ironic, given that the last time they spoke he was calling the bloke 'Dad.' Definitely a moment best forgotten.

"Know what, Watcher? Not in the mood for chit-chat, much less twenty questions. What happened between the Slayer and me, that's our business. If Buffy wants you to know, I'm sure she'll tell you; you being her Watcher and all." He turns back to the stairs. "In the meantime, I'm gonna waste the rest of my day getting some hard earned kip."

Spike's through the door and partially down the stairs before Giles' deep sigh reaches his ears.

"Spike, please, a moment."

Spike is mildly disgusted to find that he stops immediately. He's never been able to put his finger on it, but there's always been something about Giles that gets his attention, despite his long-lived aversion to authority figures.

Spike remembers in vivid detail that long, awful night when Giles was a guest of Angelus; the night that saw the birth of his uneasy alliance with the Slayer, and the beginning of the end of his life with Drusilla. Remembers how Giles' screams had echoed through the empty rooms of the mansion, until at last they had petered out into hoarse groans and half-choked sobs. And yet the Watcher had withstood it all, the worst of Angelus; had held out for duty, or pride, or for the love of a tiny blonde girl who'd already started to pull on Spike's own heart.

It's impossible to remember that night and not feel a deep respect for Rupert Giles; but more impossible, still, for Spike to willingly show it, even if the bloke is fixing him with the same steel-gray gaze with which he stared down Angelus.

"What?" Spike asks, hoping his bored, tired tone hides any of those pesky uncomfortable feelings.

"I didn't start this to make accusations." Giles' voice is as firm and as penetrating as his gaze.

"Oh, really?" Spike raises an incredulous eyebrow. "You've got a funny way of showing it then, mate."

"Well, if you'd stop with the dramatics and listen to me for half a moment..."

Spike bit back a retort. Okay. "I'm listening."

Giles nods, looks mightily uncomfortable as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The silence around them begins to thicken, and Spike thinks he can actually hear the Watcher's teeth grinding together. Obviously he hadn't expected it to be quite that easy. Should've known ol' Spike just isn't up for the fighting these days.

Spike sighs and leans back against the doorframe. He can glimpse vivid brightness of the day outside through the blinds. The yellow of the sun, the brilliant azure of the sky, the richly fertile green of the grass and foliage, the occasional burst of a more passionate color in the flowering spring garden. Vampires live their lives in black and white and shades of gray, but the presence of the soul has reawakened the poet in him, and a part of him now longs for color.

Finally, Giles' voice breaks through his musings.

"Buffy told me that you went and sought a soul, voluntarily. Is this true?"

"You think I lied...?" Should have known Giles' would never believe that one. So why does he feel so disappointed?

"I don't think anything. That's why I am asking you."

Spike's feels his mouth go dry, and his fingers itch for a cigarette.

"Yeah. It's true," he says, keeping his voice as even as can be. "Went to Africa. Got the t-shirt with bonus soul. Back here to do good. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Do you realize the enormity of this Spike?" There's just a hint of something in Giles' voice; something that almost approaches hysteria. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Why, to save the world and bring peace and freedom to the galaxy..." Spike's voice drips with sarcasm. "Why do you think I got it?"

"Buffy."

"Clever boy."

"Good Lord." Giles half sighs, half groans. He leans heavily against the counter, one hand rubbing his temple as if the revelation has struck up a sudden, crippling headache. Not inconceivable that it had. "Does Buffy know this?"

"Yeah. She knows."

Knows all too well. Knows the need and pain and fear. All courtesy of one horrific night in an abandoned church when, still teetering between insanity and bleary coherence, he divulged everything to her in a typically melodramatic display of drama queen excess. Tears and self-pity and near immolation. No wonder she'd fled; he was lucky she hadn't laughed. God, how could he have been such a fool?

Giles stands in silence for a long time, not looking at Spike. Not looking at anything really, his eyes reflecting a distance that was rare in someone as steady and grounded as he. He's processing, filing, cataloguing, Spike realizes. Doing all those things librarians are meant to do when they get new information. Clearly having a hard time of it too, reconciling this new revelation with the existing mountain of contradictory lore.

"Crusty old books and dry Council sermons not prepare you for meeting a vamp who chooses a soul, eh Watcher?" Spike asks, barely keeping the slightly malicious amusement out of his voice.

"No". Giles answers simply. And the room lapses back into silence once more.

Eventually, Giles raises his gaze to meet Spike's again. It's steady, deadly serious, and nearly all Ripper. His voice is just as fearsome.

"Spike, I don't pretend to know the full extent of what happened between you and Buffy. Nor, do I ever want to. I've learnt that when it comes to Buffy, it is best not to pry into her personal affairs. As I told her, I can not control her, and I will not judge her, not even when she enters into what I consider to be a highly imprudent relationship."

Spike snorted. "That your version of giving us your blessing, Dad?"

"Certainly not!" Giles' eyes flash with the sharp, deadly intensity of an electrical storm. "I will never approve of Buffy's relationship with you. Just as I didn't approve of her relationship Angel. In my opinion, the entirety of your unlives are not worth of a moment of her time. But I am saying this. You have a soul now. Maybe you don't understand the enormity of it. I'm not sure that any of us do. But it is clearly an amazing thing and I don't think it was coincidental that it is happening now."

"Coincidental to what?"

"Coincidental to this; to what is coming. To what is already here. This foe is greater than anything Buffy has ever faced. Greater than anything anyone has ever faced. She needs friends who will stand behind her, no questions asked. Can you do that Spike?"

Stunned at the faith that Giles is seemingly placing in him, Spike can only nod his head once. "Yes."

"Very well. Then you do not have my blessing, but you do have my acceptance."

"Er...Thanks. I think."

Giles sighs deeply. "Very well then Spike. Now, get dressed. We have work to do."

Standing on the porch, Buffy watches in mute surprise as Spike and Giles go at it with staff and blade. Thrust, parry, twirl. Elegant blocks, complex foot movements, crafty changes in stance, all made look easy through Spike' exquisite grace and Giles' years of experience. She feels her lips begin to curve into a smile at the sight of the awe plastered across the faces of the young women who stand watching. This display is probably the last thing they expected to see tonight - the last thing she expected, for sure - but it's far from unwelcome.

Unconsciously, Buffy's gaze is slowly, inevitably, drawn to Spike in particular, and she finds herself scrutinizing his movements. To the girls, he doubtless looks amazing, sleek, and nimble and totally deadly, but her practiced warrior's eye immediately recognizes his weakness - The slight caution in his movements, the odd stiffness, the occasional flitter of his eyes and the brief grimaces that are quickly hidden. He's still injured, and she can can't help but feel a little - offended, or disappointed? - that her Slayer's blood isn't a total cure-all.

Still, not bad; big improvement from last night, when walking was an issue. She's a walking vampire-fountain-of-life. Sometimes, being the Slayer really did have it's bonuses.

The demonstration comes to an end, and Giles beckons Rona to come forth and take the blade. The girl is hesitant, scowling reluctantly, her street-wise attitude not quite disguising the shy trepidation in her face. She's clearly not pleased at being singled out as the demonstration model, to be put through her paces like a prize pet while the others sit back and watch. She's gonna have to get used to it, though. Being watched is all part of the fun Slayer package.

Buffy's always been watched; by Giles, the Council, her friends, her two vampire lovers, unnamed chroniclers, various demons, the Powers, and who knows what else. She feels that she's lived her life in a fishbowl - blurry faces belonging to unfathomable beings watching her every move for their personal enjoyment. Or maybe not a fishbowl, but a stage. Hadn't she sung that once? That's life's a show for everyone, but the Life of the Chosen One plays out on a particularly grand and gorgeous stage. It's a spectacle for a sell-out crowd. No wonder she's acquired the acting skills to deserve a standing ovation.

In the yard below, Spike and Rona circle each other slowly, the girl cautious and serious, the vampire slightly grinning in that intense, vampiric way that still frightens Buffy, reminding her that Spike remains The Other. He starts his attack suddenly, jabbing the staff. He's slow, but not exactly gentle, and they both yelp as the wood cracks against Rona's ribs. She retreats slightly, but her dark eyes are ever more determined, her posture wary and ready. When Spike tries to same attack again, she blocks it easily, and her next series of parries is more impressive still. The girl's got spunk, Buffy has to give her that.

Buffy's never had that, that training to be a Slayer; never knew a time when being one was something to work towards and practice for. She'd learned and adapted. But even after all of these years, it's all still an act; an extended, obsessive period of method acting designed to present a comfortable and acceptable fa‡ade, a persona to appear in chronicles and histories, to satisfy the demands of her mysterious destiny.

And she'd fooled everyone... Except Spike. She'd never been able to fool Spike. But then, she'd never needed too. With him, there was so little need for pretense. So little point, really. Those steely blue eyes saw straight through her artifice and lies. Spike wasn't interested in perfect Buffy; he didn't need her to be a hero to hang onto. He knew her, understood, and always - always - loved her.

Spike looks up and sees this, her face appearing to brighten even in the dim evening light. His gaze is lean and hot and hungry, where hers is green and cool, and as she meets its stare, she feels the last of her lingering doubt evaporates beneath the penetrating fire of his blue-flame eyes. This is her Spike, here before her, fully souled, but still with all his passion and wit, still possessed of that intense and adoring love that threatens to consume him from within. All here, and all hers, should she want it.

And, oh, how she does.

Spike's still looking her, his lips curled in an endearingly cautious half-smile. They exchange a brief, indescribable looks. A mutual acknowledgment that they will talk, later. She forces down the rising heat, the sudden feeling of dizziness as Giles beckons for the next potential to take to the ring, and the training starts again.

Unable to watch any longer, Buffy escapes into the house.

Suddenly the thought of cooking dinner for a dozen seems significantly less intimidating.




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